


Pressed Flowers

by DekuPrince



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2015-01-23
Packaged: 2018-03-08 17:59:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3218276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DekuPrince/pseuds/DekuPrince
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not a hobby he would have taken up, under different circumstances.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pressed Flowers

Damian likes to press flowers.

  
Since his mother died he found all her favorite books, quietly buying them one at a time or in pairs. He'd never buy them new, always going out of his way to find some old second hand bookshop where all the things for sale smelled aged and the covers were starting to become a little loose. Where the covers (if the little jackets hadn't been lost along the way by some forgetful reader) were ringed from coffee and tea mugs that were carelessly, thoughtlessly, left on top of the book. 

  
When asked if his reasons for doing so was so as not to ruin a new book the boy sullenly shook his head, mouth twitching down. They were merely books, fictional ones at that. He didn't place any value in them.

  
_It's because these ones were loved._

_  
_ He'd stroke the spine of the book as he said it, thumbing along the uneven pages where some were attempting to slip out, long having freed themselves from glue or string. He'd clutch them to his chest, sometimes. Fingers going white around his knuckle as if he wished for something much warmer and more motherly to hold on to, as if he held on tight  _enough--_

_  
_ He read them in pools of sunlight.

  
Drowning in a borrowed sweatshirt from one of his brother's or Father, wrist irritably flicking when the sleeves fell down far enough to interfere with turning the worn pages. He'd curl up in one of the plush seats in the library, one set of blinds pulled open to illuminate where he sat. When the light no longer touched him he would close the book, close the blinds, and then close himself in his room.

  
He never talked to anyone about what he read.

  
Damian never brought up the characters he was reading, what heroic journeys they had gone on, what the heroes had learned since their beginning. When directly asked what he had read he would become cross, tutting sharply and narrowing his eyes. _You can read, can't you? Then do so._

 _  
_ When he's done with the book he'll close it gently, small fingers threading together as his chin rests on his knuckles. He'll think about how pointless what he'd done just was. He'll belittle every character and every plot point, bemoan internally about the _hours_ wasted that could have gone to perfecting his training and body. 

  
He thinks long and deep why his Mother would have had  _this_ specific book amongst her personal collection. Why she though it so special that she went out of the way to have it on hand and placed on the bookshelf in her room at the al Ghul estate. Sometimes he understood where her appeal in them fell. This one was her and his Father, only there was a happy ending. This one had a prodigal Son. This one was cruel, and everyone died.

  
Sometimes he didn't know why. He'd frown and glare and _loathe_ the book sitting in front of him because he didn't understand at all what his Mother could have loved about the book. It was childish, this one was poorly written, this one was so cliche it bored Damian to tears and took him months to read through. He couldn't ask her why. He'd frown and pause and despondently look at the book sitting in front of him because he didn't understand at all what his Mother could have loved about it. 

  
The flowers he got to press between the pages were never bought.

  
Damian would grow them himself, always his Mother's favorites. The large green house on the Wayne estate was full of foliage and flowers, presumably up kept by Alfred. Without bothering to ask Damian took one of the empty pots by the front, filled it with soil, and planted the seeds he bought from...somewhere. When he was too tired or too stressed from work he would find Alfred, small hand lightly gripping the butler's forearm. The first time he'd ask Alfred to make sure his flower was doing well a blush had darkened his face, eyes downcast. _Please, Pennyworth. Alfred._

_  
_ Alfred would then, without hesitance, incline his head and give the young master his sworn word that the flower would receive the best of care. Once at their apex of beauty Damian carefully cut them from their stems, and one by one placed them in the center of the book before shutting it tightly.

  
Talia's taste in flora weren't always so easily obtained, and haggling with Poison Ivy to sell her children was almost too infuriating for Damian to sanely handle. Had Selina not helped him out behind her teammates back Damian was unsure what he would have done. 

  
When the pile of books began to seriously dwindle and the list of flowers had to be repeated again, the family worried. Before Damian had started his project his grief had been palpable, and if not more startling for Damian, it had been visible to an untrained eye. Visible in the dark circles under his eyes, the way his muscles strained and strained under his skin as he trained in the Cave. In the purple and black blotches that darkened his flesh and the searing red of blood and scabs on his knuckles.

  
Damian had begged his Grandfather to bring her back. 

  
He had never proven himself to her. She had never seen him become Batman. She had never seen him rise up to become the best enemy to the house al Ghul, like he had promised her in front of the his growing clone (brother). Damian had never known his Mother past her plotting, scheming. Her  _training_ him. 

  
Damian had asked Bruce to tell him about the Talia he had known and fallen in love with. Allowed his Grandfather to send him letters with stories of Talia's childhood, the relationship she had with Damian's Aunt whom he had never met. He tried to ignore Ra's continued assurances that Talia had loved him because Damian knew that. Knew his Mother was cruel and beautiful and had loved him. 

  
The family's fears of Damian coping were baseless. They had been baseless for months. Damian had finished the last book when he was home alone, sitting in the sunshine of the library. Damian had closed the book slowly, hand running over the faded cover before quietly rising. He had placed it carefully on his bookshelf, a tight fit to ensure the newly placed flower within it would press correctly. Having taken a step back he ran his eyes over the loved and read and  _frustrating_  books, letters from his Grandfather sticking out at places and leafs of paper where he had recounted what his Father had told him about his Mother in others.

  
He had sighed, fingers running across some of the scars he knew his Mother had given him from their fights, the fights to see if he was fit to meet his Father. The only birthday presents he had ever known from her.  

  
The front door of the Manor opened to the sound of loud laughter on Dick's part, followed by the irritated tones of Drake and the smoke roughened jibes from Jason. Damian left the room and closed his door behind him, intent on spending time with his family.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written some two years ago, but I miraculously still like it and thought I'd share it here because of that.


End file.
